





^Jfa^S^i 







Class JP^JAii 
Book. Z 3 ?3 
GopightN 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



FEED THE BRUTE 

By 

GEORGE PASTON 



Copyright, 1909, by Samuel French, Ltd. 



New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 

PUBLISHER 



London 
SAMUEL FRENCH Ltd 
26 Southampton Street 



26, WEST 22ND STREET I STRAND 









z 7 ?3 



©C/.D 17 8 3 6 



Produced at the Royalty Theatre, London, on 
May 24, 1908, with the following cast : — 

CHARACTERS 

Samuel Pottle . . . Mr. Edmund Gwenn. 
Mrs. Pottle . . . Miss Clare Greet. 
Mrs. Wilks . . . Miss Agnes Thomas. 

Scene : — Mawson's Buildings, West Ham. 



Any costumes or wigs required in the performance of 
this play may be hired or purchased reasonably from 
Messrs. C. H. Fox, Ltd., 27, Wellington Street, 
Strand, London. 



FEED THE BRUTE 

Scene : — Living room in workman's model dwellings. 
Mrs. Pottle is busy with a couple of saucepans at 
the fireplace, or gas stove. N.B. — If desired the 
fireplace can be masked by a clothes-horse or other 
screen, and the dishes handed in to her as she wants 
them. But it would be more effective to allow the 
audience to see her at work. 

Mrs. Wilks is seated by the table, on which is a tea- 
tray. There are two or three wooden or horsehair 
chairs, one armchair, and a couch. Also a large 
chest of drawers with books and ornaments on the 
top, a smaller table, and a sewing machine. 

Mrs. Pottle, a cheery looking little woman of about 
thirty-five, plump and rosy. She is tidily dressed, 
and wears a clean apron. Her hair is neatly parted 

' down the middle. She holds a fork, with which she 
occasionally turns OVW the contents of the saucepan. 

Mrs. Pottle. So the pore old lady's gone at last. 

Mrs. Wilks, a sallow, discontented-looking woman of 
about thirty, with her hair in curling pins. She wears 
very rusty and untidy mourning, battered hat with 
mangy feather, bodice and skirt not meeting at the 
back, white tapes hanging down, coloured petticoat 
showing below torn skirt. She speaks in a com- 
plaining voice, but is proudly conscious that her 
narrative is one of strong dramatic interest. 

Mrs. Wilks. Yes, it was only Wednesday fort- 



8 FEED THE BRUTE. 

night, or it might have been Thursday, that I sez, 
" You pore dear," I sez, " I can see you're struck 
for death, for what my cousin's stepmother had you've 
got, and you'll die of it, I sez." 

Mrs. Pottle {deeply interested). Ah ! And what 
had she got to say to that ? 

Mrs. W. She seemed a bit put out, though my 
aunt's sister-in-law told her the same. But when 
her legs began to swell 

Mrs. P. (with increased enjoyment). Ah-h, we all 
know what that means. A real polished oak coffin, 
you said ? 

Mrs. W. (importantly). Yes, with best brass han- 
dles, and name-plate inlaid, no expense spared— 
flowers and plumes and everything the heart could 
wish, though it took every bit of the insurance money, 
and then we had to pawn the mangle. 

Mrs. P. (clucks admiringly). Well, you could 
not have done more for her if she'd been a count- 
ess. 

Mrs. W. Thought you'd like a mourning card. 
(Takes card out of an envelope.) 

Mrs. P. (taking it in her apron). Well now, ain't 
that handsome ! Black and silver ! You may well 
say there was no expense spared. What's this — looks 
like a hat box ? 

Mrs. W. Broken column. The undertaker re- 
commended that. 

Mrs. P. What's the tex' ? (Reading.) " To live 
in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die." 
I always did like that tex'. We had it for my great- 
aunt, Mrs. Twigg, what kept the fried fish shop in 
Church Street. 

Mrs. W. (slightingly). Never heard of her. . . . 
I wanted, " Ow for the touch of a vanished hand, 
and the sound of a voice that is still." More classy, 
I thought. But they said we'd better keep that for 
father. He'll be the next to go, and it'll be a blessed 
relief. . . . What you got there ? 



FEED THE BRUTE. 9 

Mrs. P. A little bit of stew for supper. Samuel 
loves a bit of stew with plenty of onion. 

Mrs. W. Smells good, but it's a lot of trouble. 
Tinned salmon now — I say that's always ready. 

Mrs. P. My husband don't] fancy tinned food. 
He's that picksome about his victuals. This stew 
now — it's got to be so as you could eat it with a 
spoon. 

Mrs. W. I shouldn't give in to such fancies. 

Mrs. P. Well, his teeth ain't over good — least- 
ways, they ain't a good fit. 

Mrs. W. What you got in the saucepan ? 

Mrs. P. A little jam rowley-powley. 

Mrs. W. Stew and rowley-powley ! Well, I 
shouldn't think there's another man in the Buildings 
as'll come home to such a supper to-night. 

Mrs. P. No, and not in West Ham neither. But 
it's the naniversary of our wedding day. I seemed 
to want a bit of a treat. 

Mrs. W. {enviously). You going to have a hot 
supper too ! 

Mrs. P. (clearing away the teathings and beginning 
to lay the cloth, knife and fork, etc.). Oh no, the 
cooking's my treat. I used to be a cook, you know 
— " good plain " — but I've sent up as many -as nine 
courses, counting cheese and biscuits. My mother 
now, she was a professed cook, and so was my grand- 
mother. We Twiggs ain't much at our books, but 
give us a saucepan, and we're all there. 

Mrs. W. (sniffing). Mr. Pottle must be doing well. 
I thought he was out of work. 

Mrs. P. So he is, in a manner of speaking. But 
he went to the Relief Committee, and they put him 
on the roads. Five shillings a day, wet or fine. He 
didn't make that at his own trade, and worked longer 
hours. 

Mrs. W. Ah, I often wish my old man could lose 
his job. But there — he's got no ambition— no 
enterprise. 



10 FEED THE BRUTE. 

Mrs. P. Of course we don't have stew and pud- 
den every day. Sometimes it only runs to a blowter 
and a baked apple. But you can make anything 
tasty if you take a bit of trouble. 

Mrs. W. Well, I should think there's only one 
way of cooking a blowter and a baked apple. 

•Mrs. P. Ah, I know that one way — mine's the 
other. First I choose my blowter — ham-cured, not 
too mild, with a hard roe. Then I split and bone 
it, fry to a turn with a dab of butter, and serve be- 
tween two hot plates, with mustard and vinegar 
beat up for a relish. 

Mrs. W. (in wide-eyed amazement). Well, I never ! 

Mrs. P. And I pick my own apple — English, of 
course. Take out the core, fill in with sugar, and 
roast to a turn. Then I save a drain of milk from 
tea, and boil it up with a pinch of flour and a dash 
of sugar — milk custard, I call it 

Mrs. W. (in contemptuous amusement). Fancy 
taking all that trouble about your own husband ! 

Mrs. P. Well, he's been a good husband to me. 
Never knocks me about — don't drink 

Mrs. W. How about last Good Friday ? 

Mrs. P. Oh, I don't say he hasn't a bit of a spree 
on Bank Holidays, Christmas Day and Good Friday ; 
but it's a poor heart that never rejoices. 

Mrs. W. Gives yer the rough side of his tongue 
sometimes, don't he ? We can hear him carrying-on 
right through the wall. 

Mrs. P. Oh, that ain't my Sam. It must be 
those Wiggins' down below. 

Mrs. W. Oh, go on. 

Mrs. P. (looking at clock). He ought to be back 
in a minute. 

Mrs. W. (getting up wearily). I suppose I must 
go and see after something for supper. The men 
little think how we slave for 'em, day in and day 
out— cooking and cleaning, mending and washing up 
after 'em. It's a dog's life, I say. 



FEED THE BRUTE. U 

Mrs. P. (virtuously). I think we ought to be very 
thankful to have victuals to cook, and husbands to 
cook 'em for. 

Mrs. W. Oh, you're all right. You haven't got 
any kids dragging after you. 

Mrs. P. No, I used to wish I had. 3ut there, 
I think a man's baby enough for any woman. . . . 
You haven't left yourself much time to cook the 
supper, have you ? 

Mrs. W. Cold bacon is all my old man'll get to- 
night. If he wants any more, there's the tinned 
salmon. 

Mrs. P. I should just like to see Samuel's face if 
I put cold bacon under his nose. 

Altercation with children on the stairs. Noise outside, 
and enter Pottle. He is a big, rough-looking man, 
in working clothes, with grimy hands and face. He 
comes in grumbling about "a parcel of kids always 
under your feet," etc. 

Mrs. W. (with a feeble attempt at coquetry). Why, 
there is Mr. Pottle, I do declare. 

Mr. Pottle. Umph ! 

Mrs. W. Good-evening, Mr. Pottle. 1 just looked 
in to borrow a bit of kindling. Good-night, Mrs. 
Pottle, dear. See you in the morning. 

Mrs. P. (shortly). Good-night. (Looks anxiously 
at Pottle.) 

Exit Mrs. Wilks (with bundle of kindling). 

Mr. P. (savagely). Why ain't my supper ready ? 
What you gossiping with that slut for when you 
ought to be cooking my supper ? Blime me, if it 
ain't enough to drive a man to the public. 

Mrs. P. (cheerfully). Your supper '11 be ready as 
soon as you are. Let me take your coat. My ! 
ain't you wet ? 

Mr. P. Wet ! Of course I'm wet. Thought I 



12 FEED THE BRUTE. 

came home in a hansom, did you ? Then you jolly 
well thought wrong. ... I footed it, I did footed it. 
'Arf a mile I must ha' walked. Look at] me boots 
now — look at 'em. (Holds one up.) 

Mrs. P. Oh, my word ! I shall 'ave a job to 
clean 'em. 

Mr. P. Yes, and just see you do clean 'em. A 
lick and a wipe was all they'd 'ad this morning (taking 
off his boots). . . . Ugh ! there's more rain coming* 

Mrs. P. Yes. Mine have been at it all day. 

Mr. P. Got nothing fit to eat there, I s'pose. 

Mrs. P. (with quiet triumph). Only a little bit of 
stew and a rowley powley pudden. 

Mr. P. (ungraciously). Umph ! (Suspiciously.) 
A treacle rowley powley ? 

Mrs. P. (with pride). No, jam. Rorsberry jam. 

Mr. P. (throwing away his boots noisily). Now 
then, where's my slippers ? What you want to go 
hiding my slippers for ? Why the juice can't you 
put the bally slippers where I can find 'em ? 

Mrs. P. Here they are, dearie. I had 'em toast- 
ing in the fender. (Hands him slippers.) 

Mr. P. (puts them on, and bursts out in a new place). 
No hot water, of course ! Can't get a drop o' hot 
water in this 'ouse. Bio wed if I'm going to wash in 
cold. 

Mrs. P. Here's the kettle — just on the boil. 

Mr. P. Clever, ain't you ? (takes kettle and shuffles 
towards door. Stumbles against chair). Oh, blarst 
the chair ! Why can't you keep the chairs against 
the wall ? Always sticking the damned things out 
for me to tumble over. (Kicks chair over.) You'll 
break my neck one of these days, and then you'll 
be had up for manslaughter. 

Mrs. P. (calmly). You'll feel better when you've 
had your supper. I can see you're hungry. 

Mr. P. (going through door, which he leaves partly 
open). Hungry ! Ow no ; I lunched with the Lord 
Mayor at the Manshing House, and bio wed meself 



FEED THE BRUTE. 13 

out with turtle soup and pineapples. Hungry ! 
Not much ! 

Sounds of water being poured out, 

Where's the sowp ? (Shouting.) 

Mrs. P. (busy over her pots and pans). In the 
sowp-dish. 

Mr. P. (shouting). But where's the blooming 
sowp-dish ? 

Mrs, P. Where it always is — beside the sink. 

Mr. P. (yells). Ow ! 

Mrs. P. What's the matter now ? 

Mr. P. Scalt meself. You've been and made the 
water so plaguey hot. 

Mrs. P. Well, you wouldn't have me ice it, would 
you ? 

Sounds of vigorous splashing. 

Mr. P. (wails). You've put me the wrong towel. 

Mrs. P. There's two on the roller. One rough 
and one smooth. I ain't got nothing between. 

Mr. P. No, you never would 'ave nothing be- 
tween. 

Grunt from Pottle. A minute later he stumps in 
rubbing his face and head with a rough towel. 

(Loudly.) Now then, where's this here grub ? My 
Gawd, if it ain't enough to break a man's heart. An 
idling, gossipping, trolloping 

Mrs. P. (quietly draws up a chair to the table. 
Kindly). Now, you just set down there. I told 
you your supper'd be ready as soon as you'd cleaned 
yourself. Look at this now. (Quickly turns stew 
out on to dish, and sets it in front of him.) Done to 
a turn, though I sez it. 

Mr. P. (looks at it critically, grunts, and helps 
himself). Where's my beer ? 



14 FEED THE BRUTE. 

Mrs. P. (pouring Out beer from jug). In your mug, 
but I don't suppose it'll be there long. 

Pottle eats greedily, but grumblingly. Mrs. Pottle 
stands and watches him with a benignant eye. 

Mrs. P. How's the stew ? 

Mr. P. Not enough onion. 

Mrs. P. Well there : last time you said I pizened 
it with onion. I expect you're tired to-night, and 
then you never stomach your victuals. 

Mr. P. Expect I'm tired. Ow no ! I've been 
laying on a sofa all day, with me feet on a cushion 
and a piller under me head. ... (Fiercely.) I'm 
getting about sick of it all, I am. Working the flesh 
off me bones for a beggarly sixpence an hour. Might 
as well be a blooming nigger. 

Mrs. P. The boss hasn't been down on you again, 
has he ? 

Mr. P. (with his mouth full). I'd like to knock his 
ugly head off. I'd stopped sweeping half a sec, just 
to draw me breath like, when up he comes, and sez, 
" Ullo, my man," he sez, " I don't pay you to lean 
on your broom all day." " Hoh ! " I sez, " you 
don't, don't you," I sez, " Hoh ! indeed ! " 

Mrs. P. (admiringly). Oh, you are a caution ! 
You do know how to cheek 'em. What had he got 
to say to that ? 

Mr. P. Said I used me broom as if I was cleaning 
a baby's face. Said the blarsted brooms were meant 
for use and not for ornament. Said the roads weren't 
over good, but I needn't be afraid of sweeping 'em 
away. I up and sez, " Go and put your head in a 
bag," I sez. 

Mrs. P. (startled). And he didn't give you the 
sack ? 

Mr. P. (sheepishly). No, he never 'eard me. . . . 
What I say is, there's got to be an end of this. (With 



FEED THE BRUTE. 15 

violence.) I ain't going to put up with it much 
longer. It's me, and such as me, what creates the 
wealth of this country. 

Mrs. P. Lor ! (Impressed.) 

Mr. P. I may be only a pore working man, but 
I have me own ideas. The employer and the parson 
can't bamboozle me. I think for myself. 

Mrs. P. (admiringly). I never knew such a man 
to think. And then you talk so beautiful. You 
ought to be in Parliament. 

Mr. P. (growling). A fat lot you know about Par- 
liament. You attend to your pudden. 

Mrs. P. goes to fireplace. 

Mr. P. (striking the table with his fist). I tell you, 
there's a day coming — when these here bloated 
capitalists, they'll have to reckon with us working 
men what makes their money for 'em. What right, 
I arsk, have they to drive in their mowter-cars while 
I walk through the mud on me shoddy boots ? 

Mrs. P. (with cheerful irrelevance). I do hate them 
nasty mowters. I'd feel safer on me boots, or in a 
good old horse bus. 

Mr. P. (witheringly). I didn't arsk what your 
feelings were. You're only a woman. (Slight pause, 
while he eats grumblingly.) Look at this here govern- 
ment ! Calls theirselves Radicals. Sits in their 
droring-rooms swilling champagne, and wants to shut 
up the pore man's pub. 

Mrs. P. (always willing to agree, but really caring 
nothing whatever about the matter). It's a wicked 
shame. 

Mr. P. Gets their own salaries raised, and grudges 
the pore man ten shillings a week at sixty. 

Mrs. P. (in same tone). I call it downright mean. 

Mr. P. Talks of doing away with the 'Ouse of 
Lords, and then goes and shoves theirselves into it. 

Mrs. P. Something ought to be done about it. 



16 FEED THE BRUTE. 






But still sugar's cheaper, and you always had a sweet 
tooth, Samuel. 

Mr. P. I say, if we all had our rights, we should 
be living in Park Lane, and the employer would be 
pigging in this dirty kennel. 

Mrs. P. It ain't dirty, and them Park Lane 
houses must take a lot of cleaning. I never think 
they look real cosy. 

Mr. P. Oh, shut your head ! . . . I'd like to 
treat them millionaires the way they do in Russia- 
blow 'em up with dynamite. 

Mrs. P. Oh, Samuel, how can you talk so ? You 
that wouldn't hurt a fly! The kindest, mildest 
man 

Mr. P. I'm a lot too kind and mild — that's what's 
the matter with me. . . . But I say (strikes table) 
that them that creates the wealth should consoom 
the wealth, and I say that them that tills the soil 
should possess the soil 

Mrs. P. (nodding). Yes, I know that's right, 
because I saw something like it in the Sunday paper. 

Mr. P. (eyeing her suspiciously). What call have 
you to go reading speeches in the paper ? You 
ought to be darning my socks. 

Mrs. P. It just caught me eye while I was reading 
that there murder case in Whitechapel — about the 
man what cut his wife's throat, and then chopped 
up the baby and hid it in the coal box. Must have 
one of them new-fangled coal boxes with lids. I had 
one for a wedding present, d'ye remember ? Lor, I 
was glad when it fell to pieces, and I could get back 
to a good old iron shoot. 

Mr. P. (pushing away his plate). Not so much 
jaw. Where's my pudden ? Biling itself to rags, I 
s'pose ? 

Mrs. P. (cheerfully). Just asking to come out of 
the cloth. (Takes it off fire.) Open your mouth and 
shut your eyes. (Turns it out, and puts it in front of 
him.) There, done to a turn. 



FEED THE BRUTE. 17 

Mr. P. (poking it with fork). Sure it's not soft in 
the middle ? 

Mrs. P. (mildly reproachful). Now, Sam, are my 
puddens ever soft in the middle ? 

Mr. P. (grudgingly). No, I will say you know how 
to boil a pudden. . . . And I have eaten worse 
stew. 

Mrs. P. (delighted). There, I knew you'd rind it 
tasty. You'd never guess it was New Zealand. It 
caught my fancy on the stall just before closing time. 
I sez to the young man, " I suppose that scrap's to 
be given away. I want a bit of meat for my cat, 
and I see that's getting blown." " Blown, madam," 
he sez, " that's a piece of prime Canterbury, dirt 
cheap at fourpence ha'penny." " Canterbury, is 
it ? " I sez. " Then all I can say is, I'm sorry for 
Canterbury," and I walked on. But he calls after 
me, " Come, you're an old customer, and it's getting 
late. You shall have it for fourpence." " Cat's 
meat is raised," I sez, " but I'll give you threepence," 
and after a bit more talk I got it for threepence 
ha'penny. 

Mr. P. (with reluctant approval). He didn't make 
much out of you. 

Mrs. P. (clearing away the dish). There's some 
nice bits of bone here'll do for my dinner to-morrow. 

Mr. P. There's nothing left on them bones. 

Mrs. P. Oh, there's pickings. If I simmer them 
up with a potato or two, there'll be a dinner fit for 
a queen. 

Mr. P. (eating his pudding, and speaking in more 
conversational tones). What did Mrs. Wilks come 
poking her nose in here for ? 

Mrs. P. (taking up needlework). Brought me her 
mother-in-law's mourning card. Told me all about 
the old lady's last illness, too. Doctor said she ought 
to have champagne and oysters. They couldn't run 
to that, but they gave her mussels and ginger beer. 
It was a hard death, but they did their duty by her, 



18 FEED THE BRUTE. 

and showed her every respect. You couldn't see the 
hats for the hat-bands, and there was a whole ham 
boiled for the mourners. 

Mr. P. Oh lor ! you wimmen ! And you expect 
a thinking man to sit and listen to your gabble ! 

Mrs. P. (hurt but humble). I know I'm not clever 
like you, Samuel, but I never had your advantages. 
No Continuation Schools or Polytechnics for the 
eldest of seven. But mother taught me to cook and 
clean house. . . . There's Mrs. Wilks now, she may 
talk and dress more elegant than what I do, but I 
pity her husband. She's always a-whining and a- 
pining because she has to cook and clean up after 
him. I sez, " You ought to be thankful," I sez, " to 
have a husband to cook for," I sez, " and victuals 
to cook," I sez. 

Mr. P. (steadily eating pudding). What's a woman 
for except to cook and clean for a man ? 

Mrs. P. That's what I sez. 

Mr. P. (after slight pause). The fact is these here 
marriage laws are all wrong. 

Mrs. P. (shocked). Oh, Samuel ! 

Mr. P. Why should a man be tied up to one 
woman all his life ? S'pose a young lady with a bit 
of property took a fancy to me, why can't I have 
her instead of you, or as well as you ? 

Mrs. P. (beginning to cry). Oh, Samuel, how can 
you say such dreadful things, and on the naniver- 
sary of our wedding day ? 

Mr. P. Now don't you begin to snivel — you know 
I won't stand snivelling. Shut it — d'y 'ear ? I didn't 
say I was going to marry a young lady of property, 
did I ? But I say a man ought to be free to chop 
and change as often as he likes. Why should the 
toffs be allowed to shunt their wives just because they 
can pay for it, while the pore man has to stick to 
the same old geezer ? 

Mrs. P. (with a gleam of mischief). When you men 
get things your own way, may the women chop and 



FEED THE BRUTE. 19 

change, too ? Because the butcher's young man's 
a smart-looking chap 

Mr. P. (in sudden fury, half rising). What ! If 
you're up to any of them tricks I'll do you in, and 
him too. If that's why you get the meat so cheap 

Mrs. P. Lor no, Samuel, it was only my little 
joke. I never passed a remark to the young man, 
except to beat him down. 

Mr. P. (subsiding). I don't want no more little 
jokes of that sort. I'd joke you if I thought there 
was anything in it. . . . The fact is, you wimmen 
are getting a lot too uppish, what with wanting votes 
and union wages, and everything the same as 
men. 

Mrs. P. Oh, I've no patience with them suf- 
fragettes. I don't call 'em ladylike. 

Mr. P. I don't know what we're coining to. 
They'll be giving votes to the cats and dogs next . . . 
and you wimmen don't want men's wages because 
you don't use no baccy, and you can't drink so much 
beer — leastways, you didn't ought to. (Pushing away 
his plate and leaning back.) Still, I will say this for 
you, Susan, you mayn't be a woman of eddication 
or intelligence, but you do know how to make a 
rowley powley. 

Mrs. P. (delighted). It was a bit of all right, was 
it ? I was afraid a drop of water had got in. Me 
heart was in my mouth as I turned it out. Lor, it's 
a fair treat to see you eat. Feel better now., don't 
you, dearie ? Shall I toast you a mite of cheese just 
to settle the pudden ? 

Mr. P. No, I reckon I've done meself a treat. 
(Unbuttons waistcoat. Takes out pipe. Mrs. P. 
brings him a match.) You had any supper, Susan ? 

Mrs. P. I and Mrs. Wilks had a nice piece of 
buttered toast to our teas. I couldn't eat no supper. 
(Begins to wash up.) 

Mr. P. (jocosely). Well, there wouldn't be much, 
if you could. I made a pretty clean sweep of that 



20 FEED THE BRUTE. 

little lot. . . . (Getting up ; with a touch of sentiment.) 
So it's the hanniversary of our wedding day. Ten 
years, ain't it ? 

Mrs. P. Twelve. Second of March, 1897. 

Mr. P. (reminiscently). How time do fly ! Seems 
only the other day I met you on 'Ampstead 'Eath. 
Treated you to sausage rowls and a roundabout. 

Mrs. P. (also reminiscent). Lor, I did feel queer. 
Never knew whether it was the sausage rowls or the 
roundabout — or the way you looked at me. 

Mr. P. That day six months we was getting 
spliced. Blarst me, if I wasn't as nervous as a rabbit. 
You wore a blue dress, didn't you ? (Sits, R.) 

Mrs. P. (with promptness and exactitude, as though 
describing a photograph). Light blue cashmere with 
a white silk front, and a cream lace hat with three 
tips. Elbow sleeves I had, and sixteen button tan 
thread gloves. I wore them drop earrings you give 
me, and my rowled gold chain round me neck. 

Mr. P. (appreciatively). You knocked spots out 
of all the other brides. Sixteen couples we were. 

Mrs. P. Remember the afternoon at Southend, 
and the winkle tea ? 

Mr. P. What O ! and I remember the first supper 
you cooked for me. Tripe and onion, and apple 
turnovers to follow. As soon as ever I set me teeth 
in them turnovers, I knew what a treasure I'd got. 

Mrs. P. (modestly). I always had a light hand for 
pastry. 

Mr. P. (sentimentally) . Twelve years, and a pudden 
nearly every day, and never a single pudden gone 
wrong. That's a record ! Tell you what it is, Susan, 
if I could have six wives, I'd have you for number 
one. 

Mrs. P. (flicking him with teacloth. Giggling). 
Ow, you and your six wives ! You're a reg'lar old 
Bluebeard. 

Mr. P. (with increasing warmth). And you ain't 
wore badly, Susan. I've seen worse-looking women 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



JAN 3 1910 



FEED THE BRUTE. 21 

when you're tidied up. Nice colour you've got to- 
night. 

Mrs. P. (coyly). It's the fire. Caught me face, 
it has. Expect I look like an old turkey cock. 

Mr. P. You've put on flesh a bit, but you're 
still a tidy figure. . . . Still, I don't say the luck's 
all been on one side. I'm a steady man. I don't 
go blueing my money at the public. " Sunday evening 
at the Club, with a free variety show, and no black 
list — that's good enough for me . . . You ought to 
thank your stars for your good, kind husband. 

Mrs. P. I do, Samuel. Every night of my life. 

Mr. P. I may speak a bit rough sometimes, but 
me heart's in the right place. I've never laid a finger 
on you, have I, Susan ? 

Mrs. P. No, you've been more like a friend than 
a husband. 

Mr. P. Tell you what it is. I'll take you for an 
outing on Sunday. We'll go and see the 'ouse where 
the man chopped up the baby. 

Mrs. P. Oh, Samuel, that will be a treat ! 

Mr. P. And then we'll take a mowter bus to 
Hyde Park. Might get a chance to see the Queen 
drive through. 

Mrs. P. (delighted). And the dear little princes. 

Mr. P. (getting up). Come and give us a kiss, old 
girl. (Catches hold of her and pulls her towards htm.) 

Mrs. P. (bashfully). Lor, Samuel, how can you be 
so silly ? And we old married folk ! Give over, do. 

He pulls her down on his knee, puts his arm round 
her neck, and gives her a " good hug." 

Curtain. 



Butler & Tanner The Selwood Printing Works Frome and London 



THE PLAYS OF ALFRED SUTRO. 

Paper, acting edition, is. 6d. net. Cloth, Library Edition, 
2S. 6d. net. 

The FASCINATING Mr. VANDERVELDT 

A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. (Paper only.) 

THE BARRIER, <oiatn om y .) 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 

THE BUILDER OF BRIDGES. ( cioth «w 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 

CAVE OF ILLUSION. 1^4) 

A PLAY /N FOUR ACTS. 

JOHN GLAYDES HONOUR, roioth <mi y .) 

A PL A Y IN FOUR ACTS. 

MOLLENTRAVE ON WOMEN. 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 

THE PERFECT LOVER. 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 

THE WALLS OF JERICHO. 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS. 
The following One-Act Plays at 6d. each. 

CARROTS. 

THE CORRECT THING. 

ELLAS APOLOGY. 

A GAME OF CHESS. 

THE GUTTER OF TIME. 

A MAKER OF MEN 

THE MAN ON THE KERB. 

A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED 

THE OPEN DOOR. 

MR. STEINMANNS CORNER 

THE SALT OF LIFE, 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




BMW* 






